c'est la vie, mon chéri
by phaenomenaa
Summary: A girl called behind her, with a knowing air, "This is not all very wise, Marion." She turned on her friend, her face alight with coquettish wit, "I don't want it to be." {germany/belgium. prostitution au in the early 1910s. broken hearts and sighs full of sorrow ensue. enjoy!}


_It's not love_, she had whispered, one evening. Her breath was spilling over the shell of his ear, warm and lilting. _It's not love, whatever you might think it is_, resonated in his head, over and over. And yet, the finger that trailed down his jawline, down his throat—his jugular; perhaps the nail of her index would slice, and warmth wouldn't only be her breath, it'd be red—was so very hot, he still felt the scorch of an iron brand on his heart.

The blonde of her hair framed her face prettily in the low light of the moon, and shadows danced well on her face; eyelashes brushed black on her cheekbones, the slope of her bottom lip curved gracefully. She dropped a kiss on his cheek, leaning forward from her perched elbow on her pillow, her naked side slick against his. His eyes fluttered close at the affection, and he shifted, turning to bury his head against her collarbone. (_It is_, he wanted to answer, but that'd be a lie.

_For her_, at least.)

_It is a flame, that will lick and smoulder, but it is old. It will be fleeting_. An old flame, he convinced himself. Tried to, at least.

He'd asked why she couldn't just be with him, had whispered against her breast a word of tenderness. She laughed, darlingly and lusty, her hand dainty on his face to push him away. "You'd have Colette write about us, Ludwig. The fallen woman taken in by the student."

He was shy then, pink tainting his cheeks. "She'd have reason to." He was honest, she knew, holding a look of misplaced trust in his blues. "No," she whispered, her lips pulsing against his, "She wouldn't."

"Why not?" he sighed, dropping his arm over her full waist, pulling her to him. She retaliated with her own exhale, her fingers brushing the hair away from his forehead, "Because I can't—and I shan't."

"I don't understand you," he said, slight frustration tinting his voice. It was young anger, invincible in its youth. Arrogant, almost; confident in its adequacy to hold the world in its palm. "I don't see why you won't." The hand on her waist tightened into the ivory of her flesh, balming red into her.

She placed her palm on his, easing his hold, which he slackened quickly upon realizing the dip of his fingers; the one of his brows stayed stubbornly, his eyes not softening. The girl sighed again, "Ludwig. I told you." She brushed her lips where her fingers had been on his forehead, easing out the wrinkles, "What will happen of me when you will tire of my affections?"

"I wouldn't," he answered, curt and serious. There was a methodology to his voice, like the enginery he studied so ardently when he was not so busy studying her.

She laughed again, "Trust me, _chéri_. It will happen. I know men." She pressed her lips against his, and he shut up—for once, it was he that had spoken too long—and felt the familiar greed of her kisses grow, her leg sliding over his hips as she moved to straddle him.

"Just as I know you," she whispered, and he groaned pleasingly when he felt her rock against him.

.

He'd first known the oppressive heat of her heart's flame in her so well-adorned brothel. The building was blazed hot, hazy with cigarettes' smoke and women's intrusive perfume. The parlour on his left was full of girls perched on lavish seats or lavish laps, giggling into men's necks as they stained them pink and mauve with prints of the lips. Some sat atop the large staircase of the entrance hall, boas of black tints like their rimmed eyes idly swinging from their fragile hands, lace stockings coating crossed thighs and bralettes coveting pretty breasts. They'd cooed in delight when he'd stepped past the threshold and into the hall, stumbling from his brother's push. The red of his neck burned, and he so desperately wanted to turn past Gilbert and out into the cooling streets of Berlin, but with the warning flash of his brother's teeth (glinting smile thrown around and meant for the harlots,) he stayed put.

"How about you _enjoy _your birthday, West. On me," he offered, grinning like mad when they heard a howl upstairs. Ludwig gulped.

"I can perfectly enjoy my 18th birthday in a pub two blocks away. Not _here_," he retaliated, blue eyes looking on warily at the prostitutes contemplating him. It wasn't surprising really, what with his neat blonde locks brushed back; the tender fullness of his lips; the handsome curve of his jaw. He was tall, and devastatingly so—_rare_.

And then—then, the moment one would point out as the start of his ruin—he heard the tender tease of a woman, calling softly from above the plume of smoke and their heads.

"Evening, boys." She was on the second floor, leaning against the railing, with a long cigarette dangling from her fingers and glistening rouge-à-lèvres coating her lips. His stare trailed shyly up her long legs, ivory paling against delicate lace, pretty petals of black pure over her hipbones.

She was lovely, there was no other way of putting it, he thought. She started for the stairs, sauntering towards them as she moved past the girls, a faint 'oh,_no fair_, Marion,' uttered by as she reached the new clients. He choked up a cough when she posed her gaze on him, her eyes swaying over the way his broad shoulders filled his suit, his coat lazily unbuttoned over a crisp chemise. Ludwig idly thrust his hands in his pant pockets, glancing at the ground as he shuffled slightly, a curl of his hair falling over his forehead. This was so very not his place, unlike it was his brother's.

"Evening, Marion," Gilbert greeted, eagerly slapping his brother on the back. "This handsome fellow right here is my brother, Ludwig," he introduced proudly, grinning. "You're not booked or anything, right? It's his birthday."

"No," she drawled out slowly, small smile gracing her lips as she looked over the birthday boy. "No, I'm good."

"Perfect," the older man concluded. "Mind taking him for a rendez-vous? For his eighteenth?"

"Er, no Miss, really—" Ludwig started, backing away from his kin's hold. He gingerly offered a smile, "My brother's a fool, I'll just—" He turned to walk outside, but Gilbert sidestepped, grabbing his arm with a warning grin, "Ludwig. How _rude_."

He returned the same warning smile and a grit of the teeth, "Honestly, Gilbert, a beer will do just fine. I _like _beer."

"Just as you like _women_. Now, don't be ungentlemanly—Marion here is going to think you don't find her satisfactory enough."

Ludwig rolled his eyes at his brother's excuse of courtesy; this was most definitely not a place for gentlemen. Still, he thought, glancing at her—he didn't want to upset the girl. The said prostitute watched the brothers' antics with the amused raise of a brow, adoring the endearing quarrel. She pouted teasingly and agreed, saying, "He's right. Wouldn't want you to break my heart, now, would we?"

"See? Now go on," Gilbert tried to convince him, bringing his brother closer. "Sign him in, Marion."

"Sure thing," she threw over her shoulder, walking over to a registry, a thick book sitting on some lonesome table next to the staircase. The fountain pen in her fingers twirled around, and she looked at Ludwig, pondering, "Under what name d'you want it?"

"Which ever name will do just fine," his brother answered, smiling. He leaned in towards Ludwig, who was scowling with cheeks burnt red, incredulous of the whole situation. Gilbert whispered, a slight harsh tone to his voice, "She's a girl, she won't bite."

He added, more jokingly, "Unless that's what you want."

"Alright!" she said, her pen flicking off the paper, the pretty trail of a Mr. Handsome soaking in black ink on the parchment paper. Her dainty hand settled the stylograph next to the book, and she turned towards the boys, leaning on the desk. The girl took another drag of her cigarette, placed it on the table, smoke still creeping upwards from the stained wood, and smiled, her grin expectant.

"Right, well," Gilbert started, clapping his hands. "I'll leave you two be. You behave, Marion. He's not as experienced as he looks." He winked at Ludwig a last time and rushed out into the cool dampness of the midnight's streets, whistling to himself. He was a great brother—anybody would be lucky to have for kin, he thought.

She stepped closer to Ludwig, inquiring a 'shall we?' in such a way the shiver crossing his spine was utterly delightful. The prostitute cocked her head to the side, waiting, her smile blooming even more. "It's right at the back," she said, pointing over her shoulder with a delicate finger. "Far from all this.. riot." He measured her warily, and she added, approaching him, her fingers prodding over his chemise, "It'll be nice." Tenderly, "I promise."

He cleared his throat, nodded quickly in final approval with the tips of his ears scorching hot, (God, had he really just agreed to having sex with a whore?) and she giggled, her hand trailing down to grasp his. She led him past the staircase and down a darker hallway, the roar of laughter and moans slowly fading to nothing as they reached the back of the apartment.

"I like being away from it all," she explained, but he didn't really hear, thoughts stuck on the softness of her palm in his, her skin like cream. He wondered about the rest of her, how it must feel under fingers, lips; him. His heart struck an anxious beat—he was going to have sex. With a stranger. Now.

And he was going to be expected to perform.

He supposed he knew enough about the birds and the bees, what with Gilbert's council and advice (if one could call it that), but Ludwig had always steered clear from those situations. Sweaty palms and hesitant stutters didn't appeal to women, he found out quickly—he figured the fairer sex had learnt to admire him from afar. And admire from afar was not what this girl tugging on his hand was going to do. He blinked, shook himself and his silly thoughts, and offered a shy, "Oh."

She let go of his hand, stopped in front of her rooms and turned the knob of her door open. "I'm not really supposed to take clients back here, these being my personal chambers and all." She stepped inside, turning to pull him in too, "But since you're so good-looking and it's your birthday—" she smiled, "I'll make an exception."

He thanked her politely under his breath, courteous behaviour like a steady stream in his veins. Ludwig let himself be dragged inside, watching the green of her eyes flicker in the dark bedchamber, lust mingled with nerves slowly dawning on him. She shut the door close behind them with the faint click of the knob.

The sound resonated loudly in the otherwise silent room and the couple stood there, slightly awkward. She perked up, made way for the bed languidly, and plopping herself onto the mattress, she looked up at him, ready. The boy didn't move, simply stared until she patted the bed, and he drew closer, sitting on her left in a cautious way.

She sighed an amused breath, peaked at him from underneath her dark-coated lashes and placed a hand on his thigh, inching closer. Marion tilted her head to his, and Ludwig swallowed, his cheeks so very hot—his eyes fluttered close when she kissed him with a smile, her lips soft and gentle.

She pressed her hand higher on his leg, fingers drumming a slow beat, coaxing as her mouth pulled against his. He wondered if it was supposed to feel so tender; was it normal to want to draw her flush against him and kiss her again and again? (Would she mind?) His mind blanked as she held his cheek, pried the kiss open with her tongue.

She broke away after a moment, his exhale hot on her lips. Her forehead touched his, and she grinned cat-like, the tip of her nose rubbing his briefly before her lips trailed down over his chin, peppering further across his jawline, and she tasted with a swipe of her tongue a dab of after-shave. The girl repositioned herself on her knees, his cheekbones heating as she made him shift so she might straddle him. She pushed the swell of her chest to his and smiled into his skin; he smelt of cologne and musk, and she could already feel him harden underneath her.

Marion dropped to his neck, her mouth coveting his jugular, and she chuckled lowly, feeling the rapid pulse under her kisses. He moved uncomfortably under her, unsure of himself, and she paused, stretching back, her eyes stuck on his. Her gaze trailed down his forearms to his hands, dubious on the mattress. She sighed again, grabbed them, and said, "Just—" there was the tug of his hands as she settled them on her hips, "—place them here." Marion could only laugh when he complied, albeit a little too ardently, the pads of his fingers digging a little too much in her skin.

"You needn't hold on for dear life," she joshed tauntingly, watching his eyes waver as she ground down on his crotch. "Sorry," he replied in an uncertain stutter. She hummed, kissing the corner of his mouth, "Just be—_gentle_."

He moaned in agreement, feeling her rock over him as she slid flush against him. Ludwig rubbed his palms over her sides, and her hands held his jaw as she prodded her tongue in a swipe over the fullness of his bottom lip, taunting. Like this he could catch her perfume of blooming hyacinth and honeysuckle drops; a pretty smell. He caved, his mouth parting when she pushed further and he let her drink him in.

She sighed against Ludwig, smiling into the embrace, and he felt, momentarily, the flutter of a heartbeat; quick and foolish. (The doings of lust, he convinced himself.)

Marion broke away from him, her hands grazing his cheeks in a caress, "_Tu vois_? Not so bad, is it?"

"No," he coughed, "Not so bad."

She chortled, pushed the hands on her waist off and stepped back, standing before him. "Well," she started, her dainty fingers coming up to pull her bralette off, "We're not going to get very far if we don't get undressed, aren't we?"

Ludwig nodded, hunched his shoulders back as he slipped the coat of his suit off, eyes fixated on his hands folding the garment in his lap. He caught with his eyes the drop of her lace garment to the ground, and the barrage in his ears grew tenfold, anticipation thrumming in his heart. Just as he started to unbutton the collar of his shirt, she caught his chin, gently pushing his head up. "You can look, you know," she chided playfully, and his gaze darted quickly to her breasts, flashing back up to her eyes. "It's what your brother paid for," she added, laughing at his manners.

His stare stayed fixedly up, stubborn, and she rolled her eyes, falling onto the mattress next to him as she waited for him to undress. They sat in silence, she playing with a strand of her golden hair, he pulling his chemise off with calloused fingers at his collar, unbuttoning. He leant over to place both his clothes over the foot of her bed, and she sat up cross-legged, giggling; his neatness was endearing. Absentmindedly, her nail scraped lightly over his bicep, and she muttered, "How d'you want it?"

Ludwig stilled, hands hovering above his trouser buttons, "I—like. Like this." Her head tilted, the shadows of the dark room playing over her face, "Like this?"

"Slow. I think," he explained, unsure. God, he hated this feeling of unsteadiness, of lack of knowledge and assuredness; textbooks learnt by heart were far different from the real experiences. And Ludwig found she looked so pretty in the low light, he wished he might have been better at all this. His Adam's apple bobbed, and he convinced himself to be confident.

"Alright," she whispered back, comforting, her mouth pecking his shoulder, "slow works, darling."

His chest heaved, a hot breath escaping him, and he leant down, shyly kissing her again. She pushed against his mouth, one of her hands curving over his jaw to bring him closer. He ditched the remainder of his pants and socks on the ground in a kick, letting himself be pulled over her, inching closer until their fronts touched. He swore she could have felt the drum of his heart melt into hers. She pressed her back onto the mattress with him hovering above her, and—with a surge of courage—his mouth left hers in slow peck, saliva trailing from their lips as he dropped his head to her neck, leaning on his forearms. He feathered kisses down the pale ivory skin of her jugular; soft, soft, _soft_.

She breathed out against him, her breasts pushing into his torso, and she let out a content moan. He froze then, feeling her naked body pressed against his. She was warm, like a cup of milk in the morning, her skin creamy and plush. Marion laughed when it dawned on her why he'd suddenly stopped—_Mon Dieu_, he was such a _prude_! She grabbed his left hand and placed it carefully over her breast, moulding his callouses into her skin. "_Touch_," she said, laughing at his splutter.

He blinked, and said, grating, "You are mocking me." Still, his hand cosseted her gently, heated palm massaging as he tried to draw out pleasure.

"I am," she jeered, placing her hand atop his, moving it just so until she moaned lowly, eyes lazily fluttering. "But if you cannot—" she started, and he noted the way she bit her lip when his fingers brushed over her nipple, "—cannot be at ease with a woman's breasts, then what are you to do with what lies between her legs?"

"I will do fine," he said stubbornly, but he hadn't thought about that, (well, that was a partial lie—of course he'd thought about that sort of thing, but not_presently_.) He processed the idea of appearing bold. Surely, it couldn't be that hard of a thing to do.

Carefully, he brought his mouth over her other pink nipple, suckling it between his lips, his teeth—a hitch of her breath. (_Not so hard, Ludwig!_)

"Oh, really—" she asked, tugging his head back on her when he pulled away worriedly, (_keep going, just nicer biting—_) as she groaned underneath his touches. Her knee came up to rub against his crotch, feeling the hard swell of his dick. "How fine?" she taunted, pressing harder, adoring the moan of his voice over her breast.

"Fine," he assured, or tried to at least, even with the waver in his voice. He was glad the strain in his heart, the nervous, stuttering beat didn't affect that of his seeming confidence. He'd no clue on how to pleasure her, or properly; how to bed her without wanting to shy away from such things. Ludwig felt the warm thread of her fingers in his hair and his mouth left her rosening bud. Lips moved over warm skin to venture further down her torso, his hands sliding down to her hips.

"You're sure?" she asked, her knee pressing down harder, rubbing a painstakingly delightful groan out of him. "_Oh là là_," she whispered, feeling the heat of his face on her stomach, "have you not done anything, ever? You are _such _a virgin, pretty boy!"

Ludwig hummed timidly, the span of his breath sending goosebumps all across her belly, "I live up to the name." He nipped her stomach, and uttered, dauntingly after a beat, "Unlike you."

"Pardon?" she scolded, pulling a bit harder on his head, "If I did the nasty things a prostitute does to _you_, you'd faint."

Ludwig laughed a small chuckle, then. She glanced down—it was a nice sound to hear, albeit she figured it to be scarce. Marion started to wonder how she might hear it again, until she realized where he was headed, sitting up in a startle. "Oh, _chéri_," she warned, nudging his head away as he glanced up at her, "Not today—you need more experience."

"I can do it," he muttered, and she swore had the man not been so stoic and serious, it would've nearly been a pout on his lips.

She tilted her head, "Can't touch my breasts but you think you can do that with your mouth?"

"I want to," he added, calmly. Seemingly, though; the pulse in his ears was loud and adamant. Ludwig wanted to pleasure her, make show that he wasn't as incompetent as she deemed him to be, but wish as you will, he'd still no idea on _how _to do it. His fingertips drummed over her thighs as she considered him, and she grinned, finally. "It's your birthday, and your brother's paying—oh, do what you will."

Ludwig nodded, swallowing a tad cautiously, his Adam's apple bobbing. She pulled him back up quickly, pecked him, and sat back, shimmying out of her underwear. He watched the lace panties slide down her legs and fly off her fingers somewhere in the room.

She sat there fully naked (save for her tights, but that was detail, and she'd get rid of them later,) and he paused, his eyes on hers. Marion raised a brow, teasing him, "Well?"

"I—" he gulped, "I—want to, but I don't know how—"

She shushed him, made him spread her legs open with her hands atop his on her thighs. "Alright, so—" she started, shifting back onto her elbows, "—lie down, and—" she threw her legs over his shoulders, "—hook your hands on my thighs."

Ludwig complied, his palms tight into the thickness of her legs. "Not so hard," she murmured; his eyes darted up again. "Your hands, sweetheart."

"Oh," he breathed, alleviating his hold, "sorry." She nodded—they both stopped, breathing low and expectant—he inched closer, faintly kissing the inner part of her right knee with prudence, his lips leaving a touch like a blush. "Good," she chuckled. "Now work your way up."

His mouth smoothed over her flesh as he pressed higher up, slowly, until he reached the juncture of her legs. He hesitated, and did the only thing that came to mind; he kissed her just there. She laughed a small, high pitch delight and said, "Alright, pretty boy, just—" She paused, wondering how she was to describe the action, but he pressed his tongue to her, and she bucked when he lapped over her clit, "oh—do that again, yes—"

He pulled back, eyebrows drawn, and she repeated, her cheeks a little pink with having to explain further, "Ah—uh, lick."

Ludwig did, and she moaned lowly, "Again—" and for a while it was all he did, his hands coming to hook themselves over her thighs and onto her hips as he nuzzled her, mouthing her folds. She let out a small gasp when he suckled on her clit, and he focused on it, realizing her moans would get louder.

She groaned again, and he prodded further, licking into her, the flat of his tongue long and languid over her. He hummed after moments, inquiring, and she exhaled, "Yes, you're—you're doing fine." Her fingers buried themselves into his locks of hair, pushing his head into her thighs, wanting his mouth closer. He continued suckling and licking, until she told him to reach a little higher, to lap over her clit—he did, again and again and again, and her hips stuttered into him, aching.

She fisted her hand into his hair, pushed him into her as she arched her back, golden lushness washing over her as she told him, "—_arrête pas_—" He kissed her, suckled, and she came, light falter to her voice as she moaned in heightened pleasure. (Perhaps it was a little short, and was maybe done a little quickly, but still, he'd done well—for a virgin.)

He felt her legs tremble around his head, her thighs heavy on his strong shoulders, and he licked her one last time, slight smile on his lips. She pulled him away, raised a brow when she saw the look on his face; a funny sight, his proud grin and embarrassed cheeks. Marion rolled her eyes playfully and kissed him hard on the lips, sliding her tongue into his mouth as she rolled them over to straddle his hips.

She pressed down onto his crotch, feeling the strain of his cock in his boxers, and said prudently, "That was… good."

"Good?" he repeated, bucking his hips up. "Good," she confirmed, leaning down to melt her mouth to his briefly, her fingertips sliding over the waistband of his underwear. She wriggled down his legs, pulled his briefs off, and he groaned in relief, hiking up his bum to help her. She discarded them over her shoulder, moving back up to his abdomen as her hands settled on either side of his hipbones. "But I'll show you better," she said.

He leaned over onto his elbows, raised his brows, and groaned loudly when she dropped a kiss on the swollen head of his cock, took him into her mouth. She looked up, arched an eyebrow and locked eyes with him, hollowing her cheeks as she popped her lips off him, mouth shortly sinking back down on him. He slapped a wrist over his mouth—God, she was hot, so very _fucking_hot on him, he— ("_Marion_—" ) groaned, bucked helplessly, and she chuckled, humming around him. _There was her virgin_.

She slid her tongue over him, licked the underside of a pulsing vein, suckling some more as she bobbed her head up-down-up-down. He moaned lowly in pleasure, his eyes clenching. He wasn't going to last very long if she kept this up, and she knew it. Marion let him go with a pop and he moaned half in relief, half in want, glad she wouldn't make him cum so soon.

Her tongue slid down his dick, starting to take one of his balls into her mouth, until, startled, he chuckled out nervously, "_Nein_, _nein_—I'll, erm, otherwise."

She chortled, licked one last swipe in tease, and pushed her dishevelled locks back. She crawled back up beside him, draped herself over his chest as she leaned over, arm reaching for her bedside table to pull a drawer open. He watched her take a rubber out, her lithe fingers slipping it out of its package. She settled beside him, and he paused, unsure of whether he was to go on top, or would she straddle him? Marion tugged his hipbone, inching him to roll over her.

He hovered, and she raised a vexing eyebrow as she put it on him. His cheeks heated, and he scolded himself—why was he still embarrassed even _now_? They paused, and she waited for him, tilting her head to the side on the pillow. "You know," she started, "I can go on top, if you want—"

"No, it's—" his jaw clenched, tense, "it's fine, I just—"

She pressed her fingertips to his cheek, kissed his lips quickly and whispered a kind, "Go on, then." He felt her leg nudge his, and he swallowed, paused, and lowered himself as he pressed inside her, and he groaned, his forehead dropping to her collarbone. Her chuckle was hot on his ear, and he rocked back—she moaned (was it fake? he worried—_quit it Ludwig, just keep going_—) and brought one of her hands up, slithering over his bicep, warm on his back as she gripped him, fingertips scratching faintly. Her other palm held his neck, and she whispered, "Just—" she shifted, "—aim a little higher—_there_." She kissed him again, with more fervour, heat in her lips. His hips stuttered against her pelvis—he thrust again and again, drew back and pushed in completely—her tongue swiped against his—and, _oh, Scheiße, no_, he thought,_it was too early_—

Ludwig pushed forward more shallowly, clenched his toes, and tried not to cum, not now, but she grabbed his waist, pressed herself up as she pushed her breasts into him, and grinned irritatingly prettily. She met his hips with hers, chuckled when he did cum with a choked up breath, his chest heaving. His hips stuttered to a stop as he lingered over her, and gave in to her kiss when she pressed her lips to his, open-mouthed and messy.

He broke away with saliva coating his lips and his rib cage lulling unevenly; his eyes dared to dart towards hers and he found them with a mischievous cat-eye look. He rolled over onto his back to gain his breathing, devastatingly embarrassed.

She shifted onto her forearms and pressed herself to him, his body sweatier than hers. "Well?" she asked, eyes looking over the outline of his shoulder as she mouthed the taut skin.

His hand brushed back his hair, and he glanced at her a little mortified, a little exalted. He sat back up on his elbows, tried to explain, "That was much too fast—I'm sorry—did—did you even..?" He trailed off, and she laughed, shook her head and pushed her palm flat against his chest to get him to lie back down.

"_T'inquiète_, I still had a ball," she wiggled her eyebrows, biting her lip. "But how was it? Did you enjoy yourself?"

"I did, er—" he coughed uncomfortably, figured he still should say it, even if it was payed treatment. "Thank you."

She rolled her eyes amusingly, rested her chin in her palm. "My pleasure,_chéri_."

Marion plopped herself down on her back, pointed to the door on the right of the room, "Bathroom's there; you'll find a trash can for your rubber." He moved out of her bed, sheets sliding from his legs, and she stirred to where he'd been, tugging the warm blankets around her and slipping her tights off. He disposed of the condom, the door of the washroom creaking when he stepped out. It was still awkward when she looked at him, and he'd wished he'd put on his briefs before getting up. He shuffled slightly, unsure of whether he was to dress or slide in beside her. Marion sat up, sighed, and shifted over again, patting the bed. "You can stay, as long as you keep the bed warm."

His foot nudged hers when he joined her, and he moved onto his side, facing her. They both stared at one another, his eyelids wide awake, whilst hers started to droop a little. She smiled tiredly, and he asked her a small, "What?"

"You're not a virgin anymore," she whispered, chuckling a tiny laugh. He noted how her nose wrinkled when she did. He didn't answer, merely watched how she closed her eyes in a tired exhale. "You know," she said, before falling asleep. "You'll have to come another time. So that I might too, next time."

His neck burned red, and he wondered if she really thought he was that sort of man. No, he wasn't like that—his brother was.

(What a liar he was. He'd kissed her cheek when he'd left the morning after; an affection of promise.)

.

He did come back, a month later, with floundered words and a proud brow. She'd called atop the staircase a cheerful yet surprised, "_Ludwig!_" when she'd heard he was looking for her and had found him standing there, waiting. She descended the stairs hurriedly to see him, as if he were a close friend. He looked a little guarded, said something about wanting to see her again, and she perked up, hand already pulling him to her rooms. But he stopped her, shook his head and said a 'no.'

"I'd like to—uh," he stopped, straightened, and made a man out of himself. "I'd like for us to go out."

She scoffed, incredulous. "You want to take a _whore _out?"

He nodded, explained, "A walk in the park? Friday."

"Oh," was all she could answer, and he inclined his head again, the two standing there awkwardly. "Is it a yes?" he asked after a moment, and his gaze unwavered on hers. She opened her mouth, closed it again, and finally said a small, "You're an unusual man, you know."

Ludwig shuffled on his feet, rubbed a hand over the nape of his neck. "That's not quite an answer."

"No, I suppose it isn't." She entertained the thought, fingers absentmindedly playing over the rim of her bralette, brushing against the lace, and she told him, finally, "Come by in the early afternoon."

"Alright," was all he said, and his lips split in a tiny, eased grin. She leant up, pressed a feathered kiss to his cheek, and watched him duck out of the brothel. A girl called behind her, with a knowing air, "This is not all very wise, Marion."

She turned on her friend, her face alight with coquettish wit, "I don't want it to be."

.

Their affair had bloomed into something more, slow and steady within the passing months, and today on his nineteenth, he waited for her.

Ludwig's fingertips drummed against the cloth of the table, their tap-tap patient and continuous. His eyes glided with bore over the newspaper on his right, the black-and-white stories already neatly read and folded with care over his restaurant napkin. He shook up his wristwatch; the tick-tock of the arrows read nearly ten-fifteen. A proud brow raised unimpressively as he recalled how he'd told her their reservation was for ten. (He'd arrived at a quarter-to, worried she'd be waiting for him.)

He already knew what sort of excuse would curve over her lips if he scolded her; "_Liebe, wouldn't you rather be fashionably late than_ early?" She'd say it with well-placed punctuation and the dismissive wave of her dainty hand in the air.

Ludwig shook his head at the thought, leant forward over the table and pressed a pensive palm over his chin as he looked outside for her. His gaze busied itself over the bustling streets of Berlin and his cheeks bloomed a slight red at the sort of comment she'd remark. He wished she'd arrive sooner. (Perhaps she could cool them with peppered kisses. He tried not to think about that.)

Past the glass, people moved heedlessly to-and-fro, cars and carriages shimmying their ways about the roads, and he wondered where she might be. They hadn't seen one another in almost forever, and she'd be coming to him today from Paris to celebrate his birthday. His left leg jutted up in a nervous stammer underneath the table, the cloth moving up and down with his knee. He pushed his palms down his thighs, trying to wipe their dampness off and stop the qualm of his nerves.

The light shimmer of white skirts moving outside caught his attention, and he glanced up. There she was; across the street, holding her hat above her head in the wind, her face turned to her left. She glanced to her right quickly before crossing over in a fury, a hand tight on the fabric of her dress, pulling it up with her mouth split in a grin. Marion laughed in thanks when a man held out a hand to help her onto the sidewalk so that she might steady herself. She glanced his way into the restaurant, feeling his stare that locked with hers from the other side of the glass. She smiled prettily before hurrying into the café, and Ludwig shook his head at her foolhardiness.

His amused eyes trailed on her as she approached his table near the window, cheekbones a bit pink from the cool morning air. Marion's gentle hand plucked the hat from her head as she neared him in a saunter, her figure pretty in her pale morning dress. She greeted a sultry : 'hello, _chéri_,' palmed the underneath of his chin and leaned over to kiss his temple. Then, sweetly pressed her mouth to his.

"Many happy returns, sweetheart!" she wished him with a grin, settling herself across from him. He grinned, albeit a little shy, thanking her as her gaze observed the restaurant. "Rather chic place, you know." She glanced back at him casually, posed a funny, "oh," and remembered, "How are you?"

"Perfectly fine," he said, calm joy to him. "You?"

Marion grinned some more, the green of her eyes bright, and answered, "I'm peachy." She took her napkin gently off the table, layered it over her lap, and leaned forward as she placed her chin over her knuckles.

They smiled stupidly at one another, and he asked, "How was Paris?"

"Oh," she sighed happily. Her voice lilted a tad higher as she recalled, "It was change of work—_well-needed_—but in the end, I was still in the nude."

"Somehow," he started, the intonation of his words teasing, "I feel it is not something you minded."

"No," she laughed breathily, her fingernail brushing over her bottom lip. "Modeling for the arts was absolutely wonderful, Ludwig."

"I'm sure it was," he replied, paused, and swallowed tensely. "I'm glad you've returned."

"Yes, me too," her mouth curved in a smirk with her approval. "I couldn't possibly miss your birthday, _liebe_."

"It _is_ my birthday," he replied, noting the waiter that was approaching them.

"Gilbert did say something about you liking being spoiled on a such day," she remarked, reaching for the menu that was handed to her. He replied something along the likes of his brother being a liar. "The restaurant's only a small delicacy."

"A small delicacy," she scoffed, looking over the prices in her booklet. Marion remarked, "You know, you're lucky your father's a rich old man and gives you all that money of yours."

"And you know I put it all away," he said, reaching over the table to sip from his water. He cocked his head to the side, added, "And use some for meager entertainment, at times." He glanced at her from above the rim of his glass; she seemed unimpressed from her side of the table, her eyes gliding back at the menu.

"Your brother certainly knows how to put it to good use," she muttered, chuckling when she felt him stare at her with that apathetic glare of his. Ludwig considered his menu again, and they both settled in deciding upon what they were going to eat, each comfortable with the small quietness between them.

"What are we doing this afternoon?" she asked carelessly, turning the page of her card. "Apart from the obvious?"

"I'd forgotten you were this brazen," he observed with a sigh, pointedly not answering her.

Marion glanced up, pale eyebrows scrunching up. "How could you, Mr. Beilschmidt—it's truly one of my best assets," she scolded, chuckling when he looked at her skeptically. "Now, do tell. I want to know."

"_Nein_," he refused simply, and she bit her lip in discontentment. "You're being a bore," she badgered and reached for her water, her pearl bracelet ringing against the glass as she picked it up.

"What a shame," Ludwig replied. "I'm keeping a secret from you, how dull."

"A hint, then," she pursued. She settled her glass back down and looked at him expectantly. But he only shook his head at her mirth, muttered about how she was impossible sometimes, and asked if she had picked her breakfast.

Marion ignored the question and joshed, "Insufferable, and yet it's been what? A _year _that you've been tolerating me?"

He smiled softly at that, and she felt a heart-string tug—yes, it'd been a year. A year that'd gone by so quickly in emotion, she wasn't sure if she could fool herself still.

Ludwig answered her something, but she was lost in thought, reveling over the idea of their time together, and wondering if it was getting too long, too dangerous for her to stay. She startled, thinking about how she couldn't bring herself to leave. (She didn't want to leave. That sort of fancy upset her, and she felt a tightness to her chest.)

"Marion?" he queried, the dither in his brow looking handsome. She drank from her freshwater again, eyed him demurely as if nothing and said, "Sorry. I was just thinking. What did you say?"

"I was asking if you'd figured out what you wanted to eat." He paused. "Are you alright, _liebe_?"

"Fine," she simpered. "Yes, I've chosen."

He nodded, and she watched him look on the restaurant, raising a strong arm for a waiter, and she blinked, biting the swell of her bottom lip.

(She didn't want to leave. But it wasn't love. Hadn't she told him?

Hadn't she told herself?)

.

Ludwig didn't tire of her affections—she hadn't given him the chance.

She'd distance herself from him when she felt skintight in his hold, wouldn't react to fleeting touches or meaningful glances. The girl would step off his doorstep and run back to Paris, not to be seen for a few weeks or a month, sometimes.

In the end, he'd gotten used to it; she'd always come back, would smile cleverly underneath his door frame, and he'd let her walk into his arms. "And here I thought you were leaving me," he'd murmur, and she'd answer, just as gently, "Not just yet."

Some days, she'd say it—maybe to reassure herself, or to remind him, he didn't know (couldn't care, really)—would tell him that she'd be gone at first light.

She was telling him again, on a summer's afternoon in July, that she'd leave eventually, because it wasn't right.

"What isn't right?" he had asked idly, turning the page of some textbook he'd brought at the park.

She pressed a grape to her lips, bit in the rich flesh and answered, "Seeing a fallen woman, you know."

"You're not even in the business anymore," he said, looking up at her with that silly strand of hair on his forehead that'd curve over with heat. Her hand threw him a fruit and she chided, "Don't say it like it's because of you."

"Isn't it?" he teased, curve of his lip tilted upwards. Marion rolled her eyes and muttered with a smile in cheek, "Self-righteous chauvinist."

Their conversation had become routine now, and she kept at it. She asked him when would he find himself a decent girl; a pretty, docile wife to marry. He was twenty-one now, didn't he want children, a family?

Ludwig looked at her with that serious stare, perhaps a little bored, and answered what he always did, "You're far more than just decent, Marion. Besides, there's a war coming—the university's going to need me, and I won't have time for that."

"But you'll have time for me," she groaned, plucking nearby grass.

"Germany's going to need the most powerful navy there is, and engineering studies require time to get there. And a family even more," he explained.

"What is it with you men and wanting the best thing there is?" she jabbed jokingly. "There's always going to be someone better than you—point is you might as well be the best you can."

"The best Germany can be is the best in the world," he pledged, honest.

She looked off to the side in amused exasperation, thick black lashes fluttering. "And you say you're of the new generation."

"There's no wrongdoing in being proud of one's country."

"Imperialist," she taunted, grinning widely.

He arched a brow, shrugged. "Either way, I wouldn't be able to manage both."

Ludwig went back to reading his book, and she looked out onto the park, watched the pond flutter with ducks, children pushing small sailboats out into the water.

"I'm sure they'll much rather you at the front, eventually," she muttered. Her fingernails lined the herb she held, and she breathed out nervously. He stared at her oddly for a moment, asked, "What is it?"

"Nothing," she said, simpering. He frowned, "That was an awfully melancholic sigh. It was not nothing."

She opened her mouth, plump lips curling into an 'o', until she closed it again, debating internally. She smiled apologetically, "Never mind that, I really don't want to ruin our lovely morning."

"No, go on," he urged, focusing on her. There was no point in stalling, she thought. "Well—," Marion paused, inhaled, and breathed out, "I—oh bother—" she faltered. Her throat clenched, and she managed to get out, "I'm leaving."

"What? Again?" he asked. "But you just got back," he contested; there was a crease forming between his brows.

"Yes, but," she tried to explain, her belly feeling awfully heavy, "I'm really leaving this time. I'm going back home to Bruges."

His lips drew into a thin line, and he shut the manual in his lap close. "What do you mean, you're going back to _Bruges_?"

Children ran by them, laughing loudly. She glanced at them, then back to their blanket. "I mean, I'm leaving you for good," she told him, firmly. "Like you said, there's a war coming and I'd rather not get caught up in it. Berlin's going to be a mess and I don't want to stay."

"Not stay?" he repeated, dubious. He smiled warily, "You don't mean that." More assuredly, "You never do."

"I do," she wavered, and her voice lowered, "This time, I do."

"What? _Nein_, Marion—"

She murmured under her breath, "Oh, _merde_." She bit her lip in discomfort, "It's not Marion. That—that isn't my real name. It's Machteld."

His face turned into was something of hurt and confusion; —_was_? She couldn't quite bare to look at him and her heart felt terribly tight as she explained : "A French name sounded better in Berlin than a Dutch one."

Ludwig's eyes had become a steel cold, and he gave her that look of doubt she absolutely despised. Machteld glanced down, chuckled a sad, melancholic sound. "Made me more special, genuine. You know how French whores are; they're better."

His jaw clenched, he gritted, "No, I wouldn't know." He reached for his book and ignored her as he kept reading. Ludwig couldn't figure out what else to say, other than maybe he wanted to say something that'd hurt her just like she had him. He tried to focus on the words in his book instead of the rush of thoughts in his head.

They sat in silence, and she tried to speak to him again, but he stubbornly disregarded her, turning a page brusquely. "I'll be gone by the weekend's end," she said, shyly. He hummed, and she plucked another grape from the bowl on their blanket, her rib cage fluttering with nerves as she blinked her eyes dry.

A bystander would have mistaken the fight for a mere spat, easily fixed with a heartfelt glance and a soft word. Mistaken was quite right the word, for with a few well-put sentences, she had ruined his morning, and perhaps his love for her. (But hadn't she told him it wasn't love? Hadn't she told him?)

They sat in silence then, both uneasy with the news and both unsure of what to do with themselves. She wished to kiss him goodbye, to sigh an apology against his mouth and feel the warmth of his chest; he wanted to gently lace his hand around her wrist and pull her to him and try to convey what he could not possibly do without her.

.

She did leave him the next morning—she'd not be coming back on his doorstep, no, not this time or the next—and when he closed the door behind her, voice bitter but eyes oh-so very sad, he said a last, "_Auf wiedersehen_, Machteld."

Machteld. It sounded false on his tongue, rolling out from his throat like harsh stones. It was a name pronounced like that of a stranger's.

She supposed she was just that, now.


End file.
